


12 Hours to Solve This

by ponticle



Series: Coffee Shop Universe [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Affairs, Boyfriends, Challenge: Fic a Day in May, Coffee Shops, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dicks and Whatnot, Doctors & Physicians, Finally, Getting Back Together, Love, M/M, Medical School, Memories, Old Relationships, Regret, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Alistair and Anders have finally spilled the ultimate secret: theyloveeach other. Now, they have to discover how to make this work. With so much history, it's anyone's guess what will happen.NOTE: begins immediately after Chapter 5 ofCoffee Shop. Read the main story first for context. Chapters will be posted daily for the next 12 days in a row!NOTE: Challenge is from Anders' POV, first person, but memories are sometimes from Alistair's POV, third person. (divided by solid lines) Those who read the side story,Trust Me, will have more context and appreciation for many of the memories in this challenge.





	1. 3pm

* * *

“Okay, that's it,” I want to reach out for him, but I don't. My hands hang limply at my sides. “We're going to sort this out once and for all… _right now_.”

He bites his bottom lip. I expect him to argue, but he doesn't. He nods warily.

“Come on…” I gesture with my eyes. “Let's go back to the hotel…”

We walk side by side. The air between us is charged with unspoken words. We have a lot to cover.

“My flight is at seven,” he announces.

“I know…”

The fact that time is crushing in on us only makes this whole thing _more_ urgent. I have just a _few_ hours to tell him everything—what happened while we were apart, how much I missed him, to explain the depth of feeling I have for him.

I'm _new_ Anders: I can do it.

“So you really think I'm an _asshole_ , huh?” he asks suddenly.

I glare at him. I'm certainly not angry, though; I'm horrified that _that's_ his takeaway from all this.

“ _No_ ,” I clear my throat, “I think _I'm_ an asshole…”

“I just don't understand, Andy…” he shakes his head, “You didn't _hear_ that my wedding was canceled at the last minute?”

I look up at him and shake my head.

“...I thought everyone knew…” he laughs ruefully. “There are whole sections of Brooklyn I can’t visit…”

I can't suppress the smile that follows. Even in the midst of all this, he's funny… and kind… and I'm _crazy_ about him.

 

He looks at me every few steps. He doesn't look happy, but he isn't furious either. It's a start.

In the lobby of our hotel I put a hand tentatively on his shoulder. “Wait right here, okay?”

He nods.

“Hi, I checked out this afternoon,” I explain to the front desk clerk, “but I need to check back in…”

We argue about which room. I finally explain that it doesn't matter at all— _any_ room will do.

I give him my card and pay for an inordinately expensive one. I'm going to _feel_ that when my bill arrives, but I can't let that deter me. I need to make Alistair understand—this is my last chance.

“It's room 1512 this time,” I tell him. He squints at me, but he follows me into the elevator anyway.

On the inside of the room, I expect him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. Normally, when people scream that they love each other, kissing follows, but this isn't the first time we've loved each other and _still_ managed to break up. I can imagine this going south with very little provocation.

He sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at me.

“Okay, Al,” I pull a chair over in front of him so we're almost knee to knee. “We're not leaving this room until we've sorted this out.”

He nods.

“I am unbelievably in love with you,” I begin. It's dramatic, but it's _true_.

He almost smiles, but I can tell he's holding back—he's _scared_.

“...and I've spent _years_ trying not to be,” I continue, “but it's apparently impossible because the second I saw you all my efforts went to shit.”

I smirk; so does he—despite how bleak everything looks—but he still doesn't say anything.

“ _So_?” I prompt.

He looks into my eyes skeptically. “This week has been really hard on me.”

“In what way?”

“Well, Andy…” he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “ _I_ was never the one who wanted to break up.”

Guilt coils in my guts.

“I wanted to _marry_ you and buy a house and have kids and all that other shit,” he explains.

“I'm sorry, Al,” I mumble.

He shakes his head, “I don't want you to be sorry—you were _right_ … we're terrible together.”

“We weren't this weekend,” I argue.

He sucks in a little breath.

He's coming around; I can tell.

“In fact, Al,” I add, “we were verging on _power couple_. Especially with those surgeons from Oregon?”

He smiles, “We were, weren't we?”

 

 

* * *

 

**Seminar, Day 2 (3 days ago)**

Alistair has been wrestling with himself all morning. _Not_ calling Anders has been almost impossible. He texted a few times, but he didn’t get any responses. Anders says he fell asleep last night… but Alistair doesn’t believe it. Now, after the first session of the day, he’s wondering again if he should just pick up the phone.

“Dear god, Al…” Dorian complains, “What are you _doing_?”

Alistair didn’t realize he was doing _anything_ —indecision usually doesn’t look like something.

“Are you going to call him or not? I’m starving,” adds Dorian.

Alistair laughs nervously, “I don’t know…”

“Well, he seemed quite amenable to your advances at that first session today…” Dorian coos. “Were you _holding hands_ under the desk?” He raises an eyebrow. “How old are you? _12_?”

“Oh god… you’re the worst…” Alistair hangs his head.

As soon as his guard is down, Dorian grabs the phone out of his hand and dials.

“Stop!” he shouts, trying to grab the phone back.

“Hello?” He hears Anders’ voice on the other end. Then Dorian shoves the phone against Alistair’s ear.

“Oh my god, you’re the worst,” he mouths.

“Uh hi…” he stammers to Anders. “We’re about to get lunch.”

Dorian is laughing maniacally in the background.

Alistair makes a few obscene gestures in his direction while Anders says, “Okay…”

Alistair manages to ask if Anders would like to join them. Anders doesn’t sound that into it.

_Shit._

Eventually, he gets Anders to agree—it feels like he’s doing it under _duress_ , but Alistair wants to see him badly enough that it hardly matters.

“...just around the corner at a mediterranean place,” explains Alistair.

Dorian, who has been mouthing ‘ _What’s happening?_ ’ this entire time, smiles and hits Alistair’s shoulder a few times. The implication is obvious: ‘ _I told you_.’

“ _What_?” says Anders.

Alistair tries to dismiss it and hangs up.

“God, Dorian…” he complains. “He probably _heard_ you!”

“Why shouldn’t he?” asks Dorian. “You’re crazy about him, right?”

“Yeah…”

“And you _fucked_ last night, right?”

“Yeah…”

“...and you canceled your _wedding_ because of him, _right_?!”

The evidence is pretty damning.

 

When Anders arrives at the restaurant, Alistair’s breath catches. He looks _incredible_ this afternoon—easily the best looking person at this conference, despite what Dorian probably thinks. Alistair silently laughs at his own joke as he stands and pulls out a chair for Anders.

“Hi,” he breathes. He wants to kiss him, at a minimum. In reality, he’d like to sweep all the dishes off the table and maul him, but that doesn’t seem appropriate.

The lunch passes easily. They have lots to talk about and the surgeons from Oregon monopolize most of the conversation, anyway. At one point, though, the taller one asks Anders a question—it’s more like an intellectual threat. Alistair wants to punch him, but there isn’t anything he can really do—Anders is on his own.

To Alistair’s delight, Anders does wonderfully—wipes the _floor_ with that stupid question. Everything Anders says is relevant and well-reasoned. Alistair has never been so proud. He tries to convey that with a particular expression, but he isn’t sure if it’s working. Either way, he feels like he’s found his _equal_. To Alistair, nothing is sexier than parity.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“I _knew_ Dorian was talking about me!” I laugh.

“Oh god… that was the worst,” Alistair smirks. “I almost murdered him.”

“Aww… he was just trying to get us back together… at least it was a good goal,” I counter.

“I guess…”

We let the laughter fade gently.

“ _Alistair_?” I look into his eyes. “I’m really glad Dorian made you call me.”

* * *

 


	2. 4pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Alistair continue the discussion of what to do. Alistair remembers the first time they spoke.

* * *

“So what do you want out of life now?” I ask.

“I want to be happy,” he answers. He doesn't even hesitate. “I just have _no idea_ how to do that.”

We both laugh. We've migrated to the bed at this point. We're lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. We've disrupted the pillows, but other than that, the whole thing looks more intact than any bed _near_ us has looked all week.

“What about _you_?” he asks.

“I want to practice,” I say. “...and I want a _partner_ —not just someone who will have sex with me regularly—someone who actually _gets_ me.”

He nods. I only see it peripherally, but I can tell he's smiling.

“Did you feel like Icis understood you?” I ask.

He makes a noise. It sounds like he's considering it. “Yeah… I think she did… we certainly had _fun_ together. But, _Andy_ ,” he pauses to grab my hand in the space between us, “no one has _ever_ gotten me like you do.”

I can’t suppress the sigh that follows. It feels like my chest is going to explode.

“I want to practice too, I think,” he adds.

“Really?” I finally look directly at him.

“Yeah… I haven’t really done that—I’ve spent most of my time researching and teaching, which has been great,” he shrugs against the pillow, “...but I think I’d like to get into the real work of helping people…”

“Well, some awesome doctor told me that low back pain is the leading cause of disability in Americans aged 20-50,” I joke. (Alistair said that in his lecture yesterday.)

He laughs, “Yeah… and I’d like to be part of fixing that…”

“I would too,” I say. “Maybe we could do it together.”

He pauses—like I’ve cut off a silent train of thought.

“Or _not_ … maybe that’s not the best idea… to work together,” I shrug and look back at the ceiling.

“It might be okay,” he mumbles. “Maybe we should sort out if we can _be_ together before we decide to be business partners, though…”

I laugh, “Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”

Silence falls between us. Soon, I can't stand it and a question occurs to me.

“Hey… _so_ … is it weird for you that Cullen and Dorian are married?” I ask.

He smiles, “Oh my god, _so_ weird… you have no idea.”

I laugh.

“When they first got together, I was still really mad at Cullen…” Alistair explains. “I didn’t take it well.” He sighs. “But they really, _really_ love each other.”

“It seems like that,” I muse.

“Yeah… they went through sort of a rough patch early on,” he explains. “...and I was instrumental in talking them through it, weirdly enough. A few months later, I finally felt okay about it—when I found out they were adopting Mia.”

“I can’t _believe_ they have a kid already.”

“I _know_ … I actually thought Dorian would be naturally better at it…” says Alistair, “but _Cullen_ is the natural.” Then he looks at me, “Don’t tell either of them I said that.”

“That implies we’re going to be spending some time together…” I tease. But then I realize that might confusing, “...you and me… _not_ me and Cullen—I still hate that asshole.”

Alistair laughs so hard he snots.

 

“All right…” I sit up, ready to handle this once and for all. “Let’s get down to it. Do you want to get back together?”

He looks nervous.

“I mean… I don’t want to stress you out… but we are working with a limited timetable here,” I add. I’m snarky, despite the gravity of the situation.

“I _want_ to—I’m just not sure about the logistics,” he says.

“I’m concerned about that too—let’s take turns… you say what you’re worried about; I’ll say what I’m worried about,” I suggest.

He nods. “Could you lie back down, though?”

“Why?”

“Because I like you next to me,” he smiles.

My abdomen is full of butterflies. I lie down and stare up at the ceiling.

“Besides… this is less intimidating,” he adds.

“You think I’m intimidating?” I gasp. “I think _you’re_ the most intimidating person in the world, Alistair.”

He laughs. “You’re scary as shit, Anders… didn’t you ever wonder why it took me _weeks_ to say anything to you in the coffee shop?”

I’m dumbfounded. This whole time, I thought he didn’t notice me until I said hello.

“I’m so confused… you think you talked _to me_ at the coffee shop? I was under the impression I talked to _you_.”

“I know… I wasn’t even brave enough—I waited for you to introduce yourself,” he sighs.

 

 

* * *

 

**Several Years Earlier**

Alistair goes to the same coffee shop all the time—two or three times a week at least. It’s near enough to the hospital where he works to be convenient, but far enough away that he doesn’t worry about running into students.

In general, he enjoys his time there. He reads and checks email and does the New York Times crossword. Lately, though, he’s been distracted. There’s this _guy_ —long sandy hair and a sharp nose. Alistair has _never_ seen anyone he likes so much… and he doesn’t even know his name.

It’s a little strange to admit, even internally, because he’s spent the last decade pining after _another_ blonde—but that wasn’t what he thought, despite all evidence to the contrary. With that rejection so fresh, Alistair is reticent to approach a veritable stranger, but he _wants_ to—he _wishes_ he was brave enough.

Instead, he waits until he learns that gorgeous guy’s schedule and strategically places himself in line near him. One day, it pays off.

“Really busy in here today, huh?” says the man.

Alistair wonders if he’s _actually_ being spoken to. A quick check around the room confirms he is. “Yeah… I might have to find a new place.” Alistair instantly regrets saying that. It’s almost like he’s planning to _not_ run into this guy again.

“Well, I think the wait is worth it—best coffee in town; don’t you think?” He pauses, “I’m Anders, by the way.”

Anders? It’s the best name in the world, in Alistair’s estimation. He wonders if anyone calls him Andy.

“Alistair,” he replies, as they shake hands.

They spend the next few minutes fumbling through the ‘ _what do you do?_ ’ script. All Alistair wants is Anders’ number, but he isn’t sure how to ask—under what _pretence_. He realizes, horrifying, that he’s checking Anders out _incredibly_ obviously while he talks. Anders seems to notice too, because he shifts his weight awkwardly.

“Do you have a card?” Alistair asks suddenly. He’s trying to throw Anders off the scent—make him think Alistair is only interested in his body as a demonstration of his personal training prowess. He doesn’t think it’s working, though.

The card transaction is a little like a hostage exchange. It’s so awkward that Alistair forgets to give his _own_ card to Anders and leaves in a hurry after a few other ill-timed, confusing sentences. He curses himself the whole way home and wonders if he _should_ find a new coffee shop.

           

* * *

 

**Presently**

“That _cannot_ be true,” I cackle.

“It is!” he argues. “I was terrified.”

“How?!” I shout.

“ _Look_ at you… you’re incredible,” he rolls toward me and props his head up on his arm. “And you were then too… you just didn’t know it.”

“Did you like it better when I was an ingénue?” I ask.

He shakes his head, “Definitely not. Today, you’re the best _you_ I’ve met so far.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you go back and read the original chapter of Coffee Shop, it's really funny with this new information as an overlay for their first conversation. :)


	3. 5pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tells the story of what happened while they were apart, beginning the morning he moved out. Dorian features prominently again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T again. I think something is happening to me... am I going soft?

* * *

“But what if I get a residency in Washington or Hawaii or something?” I argue.

He laughs. “Then I guess I'll either get used to rain or extreme sun.”

We're still dressed—I even have my shoes on—but we're curled into each other now. My head is resting in the hollow of his chest.

“You say that now… but I think you would resent me if you picked up your whole life like that…” I mumble against his shirt.

“I’ll admit that picking up and moving might not be realistic… but I could _never_ resent you,” he says.

I roll my eyes even though he can't see me. It's like a reflex.

“I didn't resent you even when you _broke up_ with me… even when you kissed me at the fucking white coat ceremony, with my fiancé a few feet away… even this weekend when you kept introducing me as your _friend_ …” he laughs.

I pick my head up. “That's a lot of shit… we need to work through that…”

He nods up at me. “Where do you want to start?”

“Tell me _everything_ : what happened the day we stopped talking?” I ask.

“Oh god… this is going to take a while,” he laughs. “It all started the morning I woke up at Cullen’s house… after you kicked me out.”

“I didn’t kick you out. _I_ said you could stay,” I argue. “You kicked yourself out!”

He shrugs against me. “Either way…”

 

 

* * *

 

**Several Years Earlier**

Alistair wakes to the smell of coffee. He blinks into sunlight. His face is smashed against the edge of a leather couch. It’s very worn in—he likes the smell—but it isn’t anywhere he lives. That’s when he _remembers_ : this isn’t his house.

“Hey?” says Cullen. “Are you up?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. He stands and heads into the kitchen.

Cullen holds out a steaming cup. “Do you still take it blonde?”

He doesn’t actually—he takes it black now, usually. It’s an hommage to Anders. It’s a small way of remembering him every morning. He doesn’t want to explain that right now, though.

 _Fuck_.

“Thanks, Cullen.”

Cullen nods. “I have to head in—I have a lecture at 10—will you just lock the bottom lock when you leave?”

Alistair nods.

Cullen doesn’t hug him when he leaves. There was a time when he might have, but everything is a little different now—there are so many complicating factors between them, so much _history_.

With an empty house and a full day ahead of him, Alistair showers and dresses in silence. He doesn’t have to be anywhere until the afternoon, but he can’t stay still. It feels like everything in his whole life is ruined.

He decides to call Dorian.

“Hey buddy… want to get breakfast?” he asks.

“Yeah… are you _okay_?”

He should have known Cullen would say something. There are no secrets among the three of them.

“Yeah, I'm fine… I'll meet you in 10?” he answers.

They agree and hang up. On his way out of the house, he catches his reflection. He looks ten years older. Sadness doesn't become him.

 

“So, are you going to tell me what happened?” asks Dorian.

“Hasn’t Cullen already told you?”

“Not in enough detail,” argues Dorian.

Alistair hangs his head. They've ordered a full breakfast, but he wonders if he can eat _any_ of it.

“Anders broke up with me,” he explains.

Dorian looks genuinely surprised. “ _He_ broke up with _you_?”

Alistair _wants_ to be flattered—this is what friends _do_ during break ups—but instead he's just furious that anyone would talk about Anders like that.

“I'm not in the mood, Dor…” he argues.

Dorian leans into the table and smiles sadly, “is it _really_ the end?”

Alistair nods. “There's no coming back from this… we're ruined.”

 

Despite what he knows is true, Alistair sends Anders a text that night.

 **Alistair** : I miss you.

He doesn't get a response.

 

Over the next few weeks, Dorian and Cullen help Alistair get settled in New York. They’re incredibly disappointed that he’s leaving Boston. The three of them have been together for a decade—through all their major life decisions so far—but Alistair can’t stand to stay. He can’t live in the city where Anders is.

He wishes Dorian and Cullen could come too… well, Dorian, anyway. Alistair is pretty angry at Cullen. He knows it’s unfair, but he can’t shake the feeling that Cullen is the _reason_ his life fell apart.

 

“Well, I guess that's it,” announces Alistair. “I signed a lease… this is really happening.”

“I bet you'll be happy to get out of temporary housing,” laughs Dorian.

They're on FaceTime, so the lighting is weird, but he can still see how sleepy Dorian looks. It's early.

“Yeah… this is basically a glorified dorm,” says Alistair. He flips the camera around for a cursory tour of the university-sponsored housing he's been living in.

“I’m excited to come visit,” says Dorian. “The department sucks without you.”

“Really?” Alistair puts the phone down on the counter while he makes coffee.

“Yeah…” Dorian yawns. “Even Cullen thinks so…”

Alistair scoffs, “I bet he does…”

“Are you going to get over this stupid thing sometime soon?” asks Dorian.

Alistair doesn’t look at the phone. He drops spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the machine mechanically.

“If he’d done that to _you_ , you wouldn’t be quick to forgive him either,” says Alistair.

Dorian makes a noncommittal sound. “It’s stressful to be in the middle.”

“I get that,” Alistair acquiesces. “I’ll work on it…”

“Thank you—that’s all I ask.” Dorian smiles into the camera.

“I tried to call Anders again…” Alistair admits suddenly.

“Oh god… you did _not_ ,” Dorian groans.

Alistair nods, sitting down in front of the camera while the coffee percolates. “And I called Hawke too…”

“What?”

“I _did_ …”

“How did _that_ go?” asks Dorian skeptically.

“About as well as you’d expect,” laughs Alistair, “he told me that I was bad for Anders… and that he thinks Anders is better off without me.”

“What an asshole,” Dorian says dismissively.

Alistair can’t agree outright, though. “I think he might be _right_ —a little, at least.”

“In what way?”

“I _did_ cheat on him…”

“It hardly counts,” argues Dorian. “I mean… did you actually _fuck_ or what?”

Alistair laughs, despite himself. “God, Dor… I’m _not_ getting into that with you…but I appreciate your outrage on my behalf.”

“Fine… keep your secrets,” laughs Dorian. “I have to go. Call me later.”

“I will.”

As soon as he’s off the phone, Alistair can’t sit with the silence. He picks up the phone and dials.

“Hi… Anders…” he clears his throat. “I’m leaving you a thousandth message… I think this might be the last one, though. I _miss_ you. I am so sorry… for everything… I have thought about coming home so many times… but it’s obvious you’ve moved on. I need to do that too. Love you. Bye.”

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“ _Did_ you?” I ask suddenly.

“Did I what?” Alistair is confused.

“Did you have sex with Cullen? I’ve been wondering for years. I never asked before because I was too afraid of the answer,” I admit.

“God, no,” answers Alistair.

“ _Really_?”

“Yeah… we stopped before he even got to my belt,” explains Alistair. “I realized almost _instantly_ that you were the only person I ever wanted…”

“—why didn’t you _tell_ me that?” I interrupt.

He shrugs. “I didn’t think it would matter… I mean, cheating is cheating—it’s the emotional part more than the physical, right?”

I shrug.

“Besides, I didn’t think you’d believe me… would you have?” he asks.

“I guess not…” I mumble. “...but I do _now_.”

* * *

 


	4. 6pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders tells Alistair a very unflattering story about Renee. Alistair remembers an equally gut wrenching one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: talk of dicks, but no explicit sex... although it's on the line. I'm losing perspective of what constitutes these ratings.

* * *

“Well, I think I'm officially about to miss my flight,” says Alistair. He sits up and flips to an app on his phone. “They're boarding in 20 minutes…”

I lean my head on his shoulder, “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay…” he rolls his head toward me and kisses my forehead. “We need to finish this.”

I stand up and pull my shoes and coat off. It occurred to me about an _hour_ ago that I was really uncomfortable, but it didn't feel appropriate to get up while he was baring his soul about our first six months apart.

“I was so hot… I’m sweating…” I laugh.

“I've _never_ seen you sweat before,” he deadpans.

I laugh.

When he stands, it's ostensibly to take off his sweater and shoes, but he also hugs me. He pulls me into his arms and I feel like he has no intention of _ever_ letting go. It's the warmest, most comfortable, hug I've ever been in.

“Tell me about what happened with Renee?” he asks. His lips graze my ear as he speaks.

I nod and pull him back down onto the bed.

“I was basically an asshole,” I begin.

He makes an admonishing sound and frowns.

“I’m serious—I was _not_ nice to him,” I explain.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I didn’t love him—and I knew I wasn’t _ever_ going to…” I sigh, “...and I took it out on him instead of dealing with my feelings.”

He nods.

“...oh my god,” I almost laugh, but it’s not funny—I’m embarrassed. “There was this one time… I came to his house late and he wanted to talk to me… oh my god, I was the _actual_ worst.”

 

* * *

 

**One Year Ago**

I arrive at Renee’s house late. It’s after eleven. I know he will have been waiting up—he usually does on Fridays. I used to come by in the afternoons, but now that I’m _used_ to having sex with him, I don’t try as hard. It’s horrible.

“Hey,” he says at the door. He doesn’t specifically look upset, but he doesn’t look happy either. I notice it, but I don’t bother to ask.

“Hi,” I wrap my arms around him and kiss him. I’m shoving my tongue too far into his mouth, but I don’t stop.

“Hi,” he pushes me back. “Have you been drinking?”

I roll my eyes, “Not _heavily_.” It’s sort of a lie, though. A bunch of my classmates and I have been studying in a bar. we’re preparing to take our national board exams and we’re _very_ stressed.

“Okay….” he mumbles.

“Listen, I don’t need to be _judged_ ,” I say. “I’m under enough pressure.”

He looks _sorry_.

 _I’m such an asshole_.

We have sex—it’s _cursory_ , but I get off and that’s all I care about.

Afterward, we’re staring at the ceiling, and Renee decides it’s the right time to ask me for a favor. It _should_ be—he just sucked me off to completion _and_ didn’t complain that I wouldn’t let him fuck me afterward.

“So, my parents are coming into town next week…” he begins.

I roll my head so I’m looking at him. It’s a slightly dazed view—my eyelids feel heavy and my entire body is melting into the bed.

“...and I want them to meet you,” he says.

“Really?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’m crazy, “Yeah… of course… don’t you want me to meet _your_ parents?”

I scoff, “I’m not exactly on speaking terms with them…”

“Oh…” Renee looks crestfallen.

 _Silence_.

“So… are you free this weekend?” he asks.

I click my tongue. “You know, Renee—I’m just so busy with school right now… it would probably be better if you just see them without me.” I stand up and start putting my clothes on.

“Where are you going?” he asks, sitting up.

“I have to get back to the library—a few of my friends are waiting for me…” I pull my shirt on over my head. “I’ll call you later.”

I leave him sitting there—naked and exposed—without a real answer. I never even look back.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“Did you ever meet his parents?” asks Alistair.

I shake my head.

“Wow…” he smirks, “That’s pretty cold…”

He _seems_ like he’s kidding, but I know he isn’t—neither of us should be. I was _terrible_.

“I was horrible to him,” I admit.

Alistair rolls until he’s hovering on top of me. His fingers find the edge of my shirt and slip underneath it.

“I think you might need to be taught a _lesson_ ,” he jokes.

We smile at each other, but I feel sort of far away—back in that story with _old-Anders_.

He leans down to kiss my neck. I find myself staring at the ceiling until he cocks his head to the side and looks at me.

“Really? You want to do this _right now_?” I laugh, “After _that_ story?”

“Not because of the story… _despite_ it.”

We both laugh.

“ _And_ … I don’t think you’d ever do that to _me_ ,” says Alistair. He makes a face, “Which I guess is stupid… because I don’t deserve any special treatment…”

I put a palm on his cheek, “You _do_ … you’re the most special person in the world to me, but Renee didn’t deserve that just because he wasn’t my soulmate.”

He leans down to kiss me. “Did you just imply that I’m your soulmate?”

_I walked right into that one._

His mouth feels incredibly soft and warm. It’s weird because we had sex yesterday, but this feels _new_.

When we manage to get undressed, his skin glides against mine gently. We’re made for each other.

He lowers himself until we're chest to chest and kisses me. His tongue plunges into my mouth and he groans, grinding his hips against me.

“How does this keep _happening_?” he laughs suddenly.

I smile up at him, “What?”

“Every time I'm _near_ you I want to fuck you,” he smirks. “Was I always like this?”

I cock an eyebrow, “yes… _always_. The only time you didn't want to fuck me is when I was _mean_.”

He shushes me.

“It's true… remember when I yelled at you on the camping trip?”

He shrugs.

Our cocks are trapped side by side between us, but this seems more important.

“I'm really _sorry_ about that,” I say.

“You don't have to be… it has all worked itself out,” he argues.

“ _Has_ it?” I almost laugh, “because last I checked we still live in two different states and you just missed your flight home.”

He laughs, hard enough that it kind of hurts both of us where we're touching.

“I guess you have a point.” He lowers himself and nuzzles into the crook of my neck. “...but I _believe_ in us.”

 

* * *

 

**The Weekend of the Camping Trip**

He’s pulling away again and Alistair can’t figure out why. All he wants is for Anders to be _happy_. This weekend, he wants to cuddle into his chest and breathe into him in the forest and sing songs around a campfire. He wants Anders to get to know everyone—especially Dorian, who he now considers his best friend.

But Anders is just looking out the window in the car—like he’s a million miles away. Eventually, he falls asleep—or pretends to, Alistair can’t tell. When they park at the campsite, Alistair gently shakes him awake.

“Are you going to be okay?” asks Alistair. “I don’t want this to be the worst forty-eight hours of your life.”

Anders looks up, slightly dazed, but he jokes about that huge sleeping bag they bought, so everything seems like it might work out.

 

It _doesn’t_ though. Cullen has to make everything about him—again. Alistair can’t believe how many times he’s been _fucked_ in the last decade—by someone he thought was a friend, someone he used to _love_. Now, with the actual love of his life on one arm, Cullen can’t stop—he _won’t_.

Alistair watches Anders withdraw again.

All night they find a tentative rhythm, fueled by alcohol and winter air. They make love—it’s sloppy and soft and something that Alistair isn’t sure he’ll remember in the morning ( _although he does_ ). But nothing can save them from the truth…

“When are you going to forgive me?” asks Alistair.

Anders doesn’t have a good answer. He doesn’t have an answer _at all_.

           

They drive home in silence and Alistair drags some clean sheets into the guest room.

“You don’t have to do that,” says Anders. He looks exasperated, not sorry. Truthfully, Alistair doesn’t even care if he’s sorry or not—he’d just like to know that Anders _wants_ to sleep next to him; that it isn’t a chore. There is no indication of that, though.

“I don’t feel that good about sleeping next to you,” says Alistair. He laughs to himself when he closes the guest room’s door. He isn’t going to sleep a minute either way.

 

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“I never expected that night to break us up,” says Alistair. He looks absolutely miserable.

“It didn’t,” I say. I wrap my arms around his waist and look up at him. “We were finished a long time before that.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “I feel like that was the turning point.”

I shrug. “It might have been… but if we hadn’t done all that, I don’t think we’d be here now. Do you?”

He shakes his head noncommittally. I up the ante and reach down to grab him between us. He’s not really that hard anymore—the tone of that story isn’t exactly _sexy_ … So I decide to reframe it.

“Do you remember the _sex_ we had on the camping trip?” I ask, stroking him gently. “I mean… before it all went to shit.”

He smiles, despite himself, “Yeah… I was super drunk.”

“Yeah, you were,” I laugh. “You couldn’t really remember how to touch yourself, so I helped…”

He laughs. He’s blushing.

“Can I help you _now_?” I ask.

He exhales sharply and rolls us until we’re looking into each other’s eyes side by side.

“You can help… but I’m not drunk this time… so you should probably do a _good_ job…” he laughs.

_Challenge accepted._

 

* * *

 


	5. 7pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair officially misses his flight home. He tries to get the conversation back on track, but they again get diverted into memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: some sexual activity, language, and this memory is a tough one.

 

* * *

 

“Oh my god…” I breathe. “I've never felt so fucking good in my life…”

He laughs and rolls off of me to face the ceiling. Because of where we are in the bed, his head lolls off the edge when he tries to relax it. I reach across to pull him back toward the middle.

“Was this worth missing your flight?” I ask.

He laughs, “If I get to do that every time I miss a flight, I'll never fly again.”

I catch my breath and look at him seriously, “Can I blow you?”

He shakes his head. “I'm good.”

I raise an eyebrow in disbelief, “Can I at least touch you?”

He rolls toward me. “No… I want to talk to you.”

“Let's do _both_ ,” I suggest. I reach down and grab him. I don't know _why_ he'd reject my advances. He's _obviously_ super aroused and I just fucked him in every position we know—he must be _aching_ to come.

“Anders,” he rolls his eyes and backs away from me. “Come on… we need to figure this out.”

I'm trying not to read too much into it, but we've had sex dozens of times this weekend. Why is he drawing the line _now,_ of all times—when we've said we love each other; when we’ve made overtures; when we should be the _most_ ready to fuck?

“Do you _regret_ this?” I ask.

He squints at me skeptically.

“Do you wish you'd walked away from me on the sidewalk?” I bite my lip.

He grabs the side of my neck and thumbs the corner of my mouth.

“Andy…” he clears his throat. “I _love_ you. I'm ready to _talk_ … and I don't want to waste another minute.”

We blink and breathe in unison.

“Okay,” I sit up suddenly. “I need you to put pants on.”

He laughs. “If it will help.” He crosses the room and opens his suitcase, which was neatly packed, to find a pair of sweats.

“Better?”

“I mean, _no_ …” I tease, “...but _yes_.”

He sits back down on the bed with me. “How can we guarantee that we don’t break up again?”

“I don’t think that’s a _thing_ ,” I answer.

He scowls.

I grab his hands, “I mean, I don’t _want_ to break up—” I pause. I’m talking like it’s already happened—like we’ve already solved this. “... _if_ we got back together, I wouldn’t want to… but there aren’t any guarantees…”

He looks crestfallen.

“That being said,” I lean in and kiss him as punctuation, “I was really different when we were together before…”

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t very confident,” I say. “I was unhappy with my life in general and that made it easier to think that you would value me as little as I valued myself.”

He squints at me. “I wished I could _shake_ you until you saw how great you were…”

“Right? I’m super hot _and_ smart!” I laugh.

He hits me with a pillow.

“I had to come to it on my own, I guess.” I shrug and smile.

“So you’re _new_ —do you think that’s really enough to fix us?” he asks.

“I hope so.”

“When did you start to feel different?” he asks.

“Hmm…” I squint, trying to remember. “I think when I went back to school and didn’t fall behind.”

He nods and smiles.

“I actually rose to the top of my class really quickly,” I continue. “Before I knew it, people were coming to me for help.”

“I’m not surprised,” says Alistair. He pulls me down into his chest and hugs me.

It feels so good, I don’t even try to get my mouth free of his skin. My next few sentences are nearly unintelligible, but he gets the idea: I was old Anders and then suddenly, I was new Anders. And _new Anders_ loves him—more than old Anders was ever capable.

“How’s everyone at home doing?” he asks.

“In what way?” I ask.

“Like… is everyone well? Doing cool stuff?” he laughs.

“Yeah, definitely…” I sit up, “Bethany got into law school,” I offer.

“That’s great,” he says. “It seems like _everyone_ is growing up.”

We sigh together.

“I remember the first time I saw you after our separation… at the white coat ceremony,” he says. “I could tell you were different already.”

 

* * *

 

Alistair looks forward to going back to BU. Medical school was a stressful, but wonderful, time in his life. It’s not only when he started to feel like an adult, but also when he met the two best friends he’s ever had. …and now they’re _together_ , which is strange, but _good_. He’s starting to be happy for them. So tonight, when they all go to the white coat ceremony together, it will feel like he’s going _home_.

The school still smells the same, even though this building didn’t used to exist. It’s a newer addition based on some grant from the National Institutes of Health. It’s supposed to be for research, but Alistair thinks they’re using the money to court more donors at events like this one. As evidence of that fact, there’s an elaborately stocked open bar at this black tie event.

Black ties and white coats—the clothes that define his life. He’s having a black tie _wedding_ too.

Icis didn’t go here, of course. She went to Tufts, which makes them rivals, in a way. She harasses him frequently. It’s all good natured and gentle. She’s wonderful.

“Hey,” says Dorian. “I’m glad you made it… I wasn’t sure you were going to come.”

“Why would you say that?” Alistair asks.

He shrugs. “I’m not sure… I just didn’t know if you’d want to come back to _Boston_ …”

It’s an innocuous sounding sentence, but Dorian and Alistair both know what he means—that Anders lives here.

“Well, you know I love visiting the old alma mater,” Alistair jokes.

Icis smiles at them both and departs to find the bar. She’s great in groups. She’ll probably have a whole flock of new friends before the night is over. Alistair is slightly _less_ good. He’s nervous in crowds and he feels strange being back in his old stomping ground.

“How does the new class look?” Alistair asks Dorian. They stand side by side and fold their arms, sizing up the group.

“Like idiots,” says Dorian. “There’s never been a class like 2011…”

They both laugh.

“Some of them aren’t hard on the eyes, though,” says Dorian. He points to a clump of young men on the opposite side of the room.

Alistair laughs. He hasn’t really looked, but it isn’t because of Icis, exactly. He can’t remember how to be interested in people who don’t fall explicitly into his lap. He knows it has to do with Anders, but he doesn’t admit that—even internally. It hurts too much— _still_.

Dorian _is_ looking, though—deeply. It doesn’t matter that Cullen is just a few feet away at the bar. Their relationship seems solid, so it’s safe, in Alistair’s estimation.

“Where is Cullen anyway?” Alistair asks.

Dorian gestures vaguely toward the bar behind them. “I think he saw Renee.”

“Renee’s here?” asks Alistair. He likes Renee Trevelyan. He used to be a student of Cullen’s and he’s sort of a friend of theirs now. He looks up to Dorian, especially. “What’s Renee doing at a white coat ceremony?”

Dorian shrugs. “Go ask him.”

Alistair turns and takes in the scene. Cullen’s head pokes up a bit above everyone else’s, so he finds them easily: Cullen and Renee and— _holy fucking shit_.

“Dorian,” he whispers, curling his fingers into the fabric of Dorian’s cuff.

“What?” Dorian looks at him incredulously. “You’re _wrinkling_ me.”

“Dorian… tell me I’m losing my mind,” Alistair stammers.

“You’re losing your mind. Happy?”

Alistair rolls his eyes and gets even closer to Dorian’s face. “Anders is over there…”

“ _What_?” Dorian’s eyes widen. “Where?”

“Talking to Cullen…” Alistair lets the words escape through a clenched jaw in case anyone can lip-read in their immediate vicinity. Not that saying Anders’ name is an egregious error… but it feels _intimate_ —that name on his lips, in his mouth. “Dorian, am I losing my mind or is that _him_?”

“It’s him,” confirms Dorian.

“What the _fuck_ is he doing here?” Alistair breathes.

“Go ask him.”

Alistair’s mouth drops open. “Are you _nuts_?”

“Fine. _I’ll_ ask him,” offers Dorian.

Alistair wants to argue, but Dorian is already walking away. He sidles up to Cullen and wraps an arm around his back. It’s a gesture Alistair knows well—possessive and statement-making. He’s allowed; he’s certainly fought hard enough for this kind of freedom.

And then it happens, Anders turns so that Alistair can see his face. He looks _perfect_ —full of life and zeal and something new that Alistair hasn’t seen before: a confidence he doesn’t expect.

Icis is suddenly at his side. “I got you some champagne,” she offers.

He smiles and takes the glass. At the time same, several other women from his class recognize him and start the usual questions: _where do you practice? What’s your specialty now?_ Etc. etc.

He smiles and answers, and Icis shows off her ring—it _is_ quite beautiful. He keeps looking over his shoulder, though. He can see Anders doing this thing with his hair… he pushes his fingers in at the crown and pulls the top section to the extreme right side of his face. A few bangs always fall back into his eyes. It’s a gesture Alistair thinks of often.

Then something _happens_ —Anders rushes toward the exit. Everyone looks a bit bewildered. Alistair is about to chase him when Dorian appears at his left ear.

“He’s _in_ this class,” whispers Dorian. “And he’s here with Renee…”

“With _Renee_?” Alistair gapes. “He’s like 12 years old…”

Dorian shrugs and smiles. “Anders seems kind of happy… well-adjusted, even, if you can believe such a thing.”

Alistair is torn. He wants Anders to be happy, of course, but happy _without him_ hurts.

“I’ll be right back,” he says to Icis. He kisses the top of her head absently, like she’s his sister, not his fiancé.

           

Outside, Anders is leaning against a railing. He looks like he’s going to vomit—so much for well-adjusted.

“Anders?” Alistair puts a hand on his shoulder—it’s a habit. “Are you okay?”

The look of pain on his face as he turns stops Alistair in his tracks. He had a speech planned—almost—but none of it works now. They run through the act of being cordial—every piece of it burns.

“I’m so proud of you,” Alistair finally blurts. It’s true—he _is_. Even though Anders looks like he’s falling apart right this second, he seems different—braver, taller, more intellectually substantial.

Anders kisses him. His mouth feels like home and Alistair makes fists at his sides to keep from ruining everything. He manages to push him away—he doesn’t know how.

The rest of the words pass like daggers between them. Alistair is getting married and there’s nothing to be done—they’re separate. They have new lives that they lead in different cities.

And suddenly it’s all done. Alistair gives a speech. It goes as well as it can under the circumstances. They leave. Anders goes on with his life—hopefully happily.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“I had no idea that affected you as much as it affected me,” I say sadly.

Alistair sighs, “I was fucked up for months. I wrote you a whole notebook of letters, actually.”

“You did?” I ask.

He nods. “They were really sad, mostly. All about the mistakes we made…”

I lean in and kiss him. He looks like he _needs_ it.

“...but there were happy ones too. Some of them were about how great you seemed—how strong and fierce and brave.”

I blush. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand up and down my side gently. “And it was all true…”

“I love you,” I whisper. I’ve said that so much today, it’s starting to feel like punctuation.

“But the point is,” Alistair smiles, “That I knew you were different right then… and this week you proved it even more. You’re _magic_.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and love so far. This challenge is the sweetest of the bunch, since we finally get to see what Alistair's perspective on everything is... and the Alistair perspective is _always_ the one I see more clearly.


	6. 8pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders gets curious. Alistair hesitantly tells the story of how he and Icis got together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: It's a bittersweet story, though

* * *

“So can you _speak_ to Icis now?” I ask. “I mean… if you wanted to…”

“Not really,” he answers. “I pretty much ruined everything. Who calls off a wedding that close to the date?”

“Assholes,” I tease.

He snorts. “Yup… that's me—just a walking asshole… thank god you've found a use for those…”

“What is she doing now?” I ask.

“She took a job at Beth Israel, actually… you're practically neighbors,” he laughs, but it's humorless.

I shudder. “I really hope we don't run into her…”

He looks at me. “ _We_?”

I blush. “Yeah… _Please_ come home with me.”

He shrugs. He’s not ready to agree to my terms, yet, but I think he’s close. Since we’re in a sharing mood, I decide to let myself be curious.

“What happened with Icis?”

“You mean the break up?” he asks. “I told her I couldn’t marry her… it was horrible. She actually _cried_ —I’d never seen her cry before that.”

We stare at each other for a long time. I’m trying to read his expression.

“I actually meant _in the beginning_ …” I explain. “You guys got together so fast.”

“Oh,” he raises an eyebrow and smiles at a spot in the distance, “that’s a really good story, actually… are you _sure_ you want to hear it?”

I know it will make me feel jealous, but I think I do. I nod.

 

* * *

 

Alistair is having a shitty morning. His scrubs came out of the dryer slightly damp, his upstairs neighbor used up all the hot water, and he spilled coffee on his jacket. All of this misfortune is made worse by the fact that he still doesn’t know what he’s doing at work. He’s been at it over two months, but the procedures at this hospital are significantly different than they were at Tufts. He’s still _learning_.

Inside the double doors of the hospital, he’s immediately greeted with a stack of paperwork. A records admin, who is a grouchy older man—hell-bent on ruining Alistair’s life, it seems—throws the papers into Alistair’s arms and harrumphs. Everyone acts like Alistair should already been proficient at everything. He isn’t sure _why_ that’s an expectation.

He rounds the corner toward his office, just trying to keep his head down, when a short, blonde woman runs around the corner, directly into him. Predictably, all his papers flutter to the floor. Unfortunately, the woman was also carrying a thermos filled with tea. Now, the tea is mixing with the papers on the floor.

He immediately squats down to assess the damage. He tries to pick up as many of the papers as he can, but he can tell already that it’s a losing battle.

“I’m so sorry,” says the woman. She kneels down next to him and tries to sop up some of the tea with her coat—it’s white, but short. She must be a resident.

He looks up at her for the first time.  “Oh my _god_ , Icis?”

Her eyes widen, “Dr. Theirin!” she shrieks. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he lies. _None_ of this is okay—that grouchy records guy is going to _murder_ him.

“Can I help you in some way?” Icis asks.

“I doubt it,” he smirks. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a radiology resident,” she explains. “ _Interventional_.”

“Oh…” he cocks his head to the side, “Taking after Dr. Pavus, huh?”

She blushes, “He was always my favorite professor—next to _you_ , of course.”

He laughs. He’s managed to pick up all the papers, although they’re not salvageable—he can tell already.

“I need to get a new set of scrubs,” she looks down at herself miserably.

“I’ll go with you.” His own shirt is totally stained.

They walk side by side to the laundry to get new clothes. When they arrive, they’re given two new sets—his are blue, hers are green.

“So, how long have you been here?” she asks.

“Just about two months,” he explains. He doesn’t want to get into _why_ with a former student. It doesn’t seem appropriate, even though she met Anders on that fated camping trip.

“Nice—I just arrived two weeks ago,” she explains.

 _Right_. He missed the last couple months of her internship. He thinks about his students a lot, actually. He’s been wondering how they all made out.

“Do you keep in touch with any of the other interns?” he asks.

“Krem and I text a lot,” she answers. “He sends me funny memes.”

“That’s nice,” smiles Alistair. “Where is he now?”

“He’s in Chicago,” she answers, “—cardiology.”

“Yikes—I had a feeling, though,” laughs Alistair.

Alistair has _never_ wanted to do anything surgical or high-risk. He loves the idea of using the most conservative option first.

She looks down at her watch, “Ooh, I’m late—can we catch up later, though?”

“Sure, let me give you my cell number,” he writes on a scrap of coffee-stained paper and hands it over.

She laughs and nods before running down the hallway.

 

They hang out for the first time as friends a week later.

Alistair meets her outside her apartment. She lives with three roommates.

“They’re loud, but nice,” she explains. “I didn’t know anything about Brooklyn, so they’re helping me.”

“Well, let me show you some things you might not know about yet, then,” Alistair offers. “Do you know the Gold Star Beer Counter?”

She shakes her head.

“You’re going to love it,” he concludes.

As they walk there, he gets curious. “So… I take it you never worked it out with Sera?”

She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head. “We were becoming too different—she was perfect for me when I was in undergrad… but…”

He nods, “Yeah… I know how that feels. No one can understand what this life is like from the outside.”

“Exactly,” she smiles. “What about you? Have you met any handsome boys out here?”

He laughs. She's _assuming_. “No… and no girls either,” he coughs pointedly.

“Shit. I'm the worst,” she rolls her eyes. “I'm bi too… but it doesn't stop me from making assumptions, just like everyone else…”

“That sort of thing is very deeply ingrained,” agrees Alistair.

They walk silently for the next twenty steps. It occurs to him that this suddenly feels like a _date_ —now that they know their genders aren't an impediment. He _doesn't_ want that. She was his student. It's creepy and makes him feel like a predator.

He spends the rest of the night making it clear that they're _friends—_ colleagues, even. Luckily, they don't hit any snags and he's walked her back to her apartment before he knows it. Everything is as it should be.

“Thanks for showing me around, Dr. Theirin,” she says happily.

“You can just call me Alistair now,” he offers. They’re both doctors now; that’s the usual convention.

“Sure thing, Al,” she jokes.

He shrugs. That will work.

“Let’s hang out again sometime soon, okay?” she says.

“Okay, Icis—just text me.”

 

They see each other several times over the next few weeks. Their schedules don’t line up often, though. As a resident, she has to work lots of 24 and 36 hour shifts, so she’s not very available. Alistair is lonely in the city. He calls Dorian a lot, but every time he’s not actively _doing_ something—teaching or working out or reading—he starts to think about Anders. It’s starting to feel pathological—and he doesn’t know of any interventions for a broken heart.

One morning, there’s a knock on his door. It’s only 6am.

He staggers to open it. On the other side, Icis almost collapses.

“Icis?” he gasps, ushering her inside.

“I think I’m sick,” she mumbles.

He can tell she’s sick just _looking_ at her—her face is pale, but sweaty; her eyes are threatening to close. Most alarmingly, she’s slurring her words.

“Icis, we need to take your temperature,” he says seriously.

She nods and lets her weight drop into his arms.

Her feet are almost dragging on the floor as he brings her into his bedroom. As he does it, he realizes that this is a stupid place to put her, but based on the layout of his apartment, it was closer than his living room. A lot of Brooklyn apartments are strangely constructed—his is no exception.

While he’s looking for his medical kit, he hears her mumble something that he can’t understand.

“What, Icis?” he calls.

She says something equally unintelligible.

He whirls around the corner and shoves the thermometer in her mouth before she can argue. It’s not the good one he uses at work—he keeps that one in his office—it’s an old one, filled with mercury. Transiently, he hopes she doesn’t bite down on it and die.

While they’re waiting, he sits next to her on the side of the bed and pushes the hair off of her face. Her bangs are stuck against her forehead—sweaty and tangled. He notices she’s wearing scrubs.

“How many hours were you at the hospital this time?” he asks.

She shrugs. She can’t answer because she still has the thermometer in her mouth. She holds up her hands—ten fingers, four times, and then three more.

“Forty-three hours?” he raises his eyebrows, “Dear god, woman…” he smiles.

She smiles around the thermometer, despite how terrible she probably feels.

Eventually, he pulls the thermometer out of her mouth and holds it up to the light.

“102.3,” he says.

She rolls her eyes and starts to sit up.

“Are you insane?” he laughs, pushing her back, “You’re not in any condition to get home right now. If I had a car, I’d drive you, but this is probably better anyway—you need someone to look after you… and I’ve _met_ your roommates—they seem like idiots.”

She laughs, despite herself. “Can I at least get out of these scrubs? I feel so disgusting.”

Alistair stands to leave the room, but when Icis stands up, she starts to fall toward his dresser almost immediately. He has to grab her around the waist just to keep her upright.

“I think you need help,” he offers.

She nods. All her normal decorum is gone—she looks like she just went through a washing machine’s spin cycle.

Alistair realizes it _could_ be weird to help her undress—in his room—but he straightens his spine and assumes his most clinical facade. He’s seen humans naked—it’s just anatomy.

When she’s down to her underwear, Alistair hands her one of his softest T-shirts and helps her pull it down over her head. She slips into his bed, beneath the covers, and almost instantly falls asleep. She’s shaking a little, so he puts an extra blanket over her and makes his way back out to the kitchen. He would have slept another hour, but he can hardly see the point now. He doesn’t have to work today, so he sets himself timers to go check on her every hour.

 

The next morning, her fever has finally broken. When he comes in to check on her at 8am, she’s sitting up in bed, sipping water.

“Hi,” she says sleepily. “I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this.”

He shakes his head and sits next to her legs on the side of the bed. “It’s okay—I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I just didn’t know where else to go…” she mumbles.

He’s not sure what that means. “Why didn’t you go home?”

She laughs. “Well… I knew I needed help… and yours was the only face I could picture.”

He blushes. “I’m glad I was available.”

She smiles, “Me too…”

They’re silent for a minute. He isn’t sure what he should _do_ now that she’s awake. He knows her really well, but not as a friend—especially not as a half-dressed friend in his bed.

“Alistair?” she whispers.

He refocuses on her eyes and leans in.

“Thank you.” She leans in as if she’s about to kiss him, but instead nuzzles her head into the crook of his neck.

It feels like she’s communing with some small forgotten fragment of his soul that no one has touched since… since _Anders_. In that one moment, everything changes. She’s suddenly not the sick person taking refuge in his apartment, but someone who _sees_ him for who he really is.

“Icis?” he croaks. “Will you stay with me for a while?” He turns his head to make shaky eye contact.

“As long as you’ll let me.”

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“And after that, we were pretty much together,” explains Alistair.

I’m trying not to let it show on my face, but I’m _really_ jealous—more than I thought I would be.

“What?” he asks, looking at me.

“I just didn’t know how _romantic_ that was going to be…” I grumble.

He laughs and kisses me. “The most romantic part is that she reminded me of _you_.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is curious... Interventional Radiology is one of the coolest medical specialties. It uses real time and/or traditional imaging techniques as a guide to execute minimally invasive procedures... It falls under the heading of surgery, but it often requires even more finesse.


	7. 9pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The professor in Alistair won't let Anders miss school tomorrow. They prepare to head to the airport as Alistair recounts the story of running into each other at The Hanged Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: some mention of sex, self slut-shaming, not super serious. People with a medical background might enjoy the vocab in this chapter. :)

* * *

“When do you fly home?” asks Alistair.

“Midnight, technically…”

I'm drawing circles across the skin of his abdomen. It's so lean; he has a pulsing vein running across his obliques. Every time he laughs, his muscles rumble under my fingertips. As a budding physician, I'm highly attuned to what tissue should feel like and his is _perfect._

“What do you mean _technically_?” he asks.

“Well… you missed _your_ flight…” I tease.

He laughs, “Don't you have rotations tomorrow?”

I sigh, “Yeah, I do…”

“You can't miss those,” he says. There's no arguing with his tone.

We sigh collectively.

“Tell me about school,” he says suddenly.

We roll to face each other and smile.

“What do you want to know?”

“What does it _feel_ like? Which classes do you hate? Who is your favorite professor?” he asks.

I laugh.

“I mean… obviously, you've been stressed... but look how _lean_ you are… you must be pretty _happy_ too...” he runs the flat of his palm over where my lats attach to my rib cage.

“Stop it…” I wriggle away from him.

He cackles, “Oh my _god_ … this is _not_ the time to be modest… you're 35 and you look better than half my residents who are 25…”

I'm blushing, but I don't deny it. I _know_ how good I look.

“Well, school feels great… I'm one of the best in my class, actually…” I brag.

“I bet you are…” he kisses me deeply. It almost disrupts my train of thought.

“Not like the valedictorian, or anything,” I admit, “but I'm _really_ good at the clinical stuff.”

He nods. He's close enough that I can't keep him in focus.

Then he smirks. I know that he's about to be snarky.

“Okay, doc… a 37-year-old female enters your office with diffuse joint pain bilaterally. She has good grooming and is well oriented, but you notice she has really thick makeup on her face. What are your differentials?” he teases.

I roll my eyes. At first, I think he's kidding, but I soon realize he expects an answer.

I turn onto my back and look at the ceiling, thinking. “Top three differentials: systemic lupus erythematosus, rheumatoid arthritis, and sarcoidosis.”

He sits up and smiles at me, “ _Nice_ , Andy… what made you pick those?”

I sit up so we're chest to chest. “Well, lupus because she's the right demographic and she's probably trying to hide a malar rash with all that makeup on her cheeks.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That's what I wanted you to pick.”

I continue talking, though. I want to walk him through the other differentials… just to prove I _can_. “RA makes sense because of her joint pain, bilateral and symmetric, and then sarcoidosis was a bit of a wildcard, but she might have been covering up blue skin around her lips—you know, from cyanosis.”

“ _Smart_ , Andy.”

“Thank you,” I kiss him again. His bottom lip is sort of swollen from how many times I've bitten it this week, but I suck it into my mouth anyway.

He groans.

“I want you,” I whisper.

“Ooh, are all these _diseases_ turning you on?” he teases.

I nod playfully and wrap my hand over his thigh and into his lap, where he has quite an erection. He follows suit and grabs me.

“I love your dick,” he whispers.

I laugh, “why?”

“It's so thick…” he answers.

I shrug.

“It's bragging rights at the very least…” he laughs.

His face turns a little dark, “Tell me the truth—are you sleeping with someone back home?”

I squint at him; my dick is still in the circle of his palm, but he's stopped stroking me. “What do you mean?”

“Is _that_ why you don't want to be with me?” he asks. “I mean… the condom situation and whatnot…”

“Is _that_ what you think?” I say with disbelief. “This whole week you thought I was holding out on you?”

He shrugs. “Well, you thought I was _married_ …”

“I deserve that,” I smile and lick my lips, “No, Al…” I move so I'm looking right into his eyes, “I'm actually just _slutty_ …”

He laughs.

“—I have been having so much _stupid_ sex lately…” I admit. "But there is no one I'd hold on you for."

He smiles. He looks relieved.

“...but I will get tested the second I get home and then we can do all the debaucherous things we've ever wanted to do,” I promise.

The whole tone of this conversation is light and we're laughing, but I've managed to bring up the crux of this again—we're leaving in a few hours. We still haven't made any concrete decisions.

“Hey, Andy…” he perks up suddenly. “If there is a free seat on your plane… I might buy it.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah… I don’t know what it will _change…_ but I think we deserve a little more time to sort this out,” he sighs.

“Okay, Al—I’d like that.” I smile, “It’s delta, flight 992—leaves LAX at 12:04am.”

 

He hops off the bed to call the airline. While he’s doing that, I scroll through some of the group texts I’ve missed.

 **Hawke** : Andy, do you still need me to pick you up at 9am?

 **Merrill** : are you still coming home _at all_?

 **Merrill** : ...or are you moving to NYC?

 **Hawke** : lol

All of this happened a few hours ago.

 **Anders** : I will need someone to get me—I get in at about 9am eastern time.

Alistair hops next to me on the bed—it jostles the whole mattress. “I know you’ll be _very_ upset…” he steels his expression. “But the only seats they had left were in first class… so I had to buy one—and I upgraded you too…”

I laugh and kiss him. “We are so _fancy_.”

He smiles, “We should head out of here, I guess.”

“I need to text Hawke really quick.”

He leans over my shoulder to read as I’m typing. It _could_ be construed as invasive, but it feels completely natural.

 **Anders** : Make sure there’s room in the car—Alistair is coming with me.

 **Hawke** : holy shit.

 **Merrill** : I knew it.

 **Isabela** : omg, I step away from my phone for one second and look what I miss!

 **Fenris** : tell him _hi_ for us.

Alistair kisses my cheek. “ _Hi_.”

I laugh.

 **Anders** : he says hi too.

 

“Do you remember the first time I met your friends?” asks Alistair. “In that bar?”

“Yeah, of course… I was so nervous,” I admit. He swings his leg across mine, effectively pinning me down to the mattress. His skin is so soft. I realize I don’t remember when he lost his pants again…

“I was nervous too,” he admits.

“Really?” Why?”

“Because I _really_ liked you,” he says.

“Why the past tense?” I pout.

He kisses the skin between my neck and shoulder. “I like you _and_ I love you… but back then the _like_ was terrifying.”

 

* * *

 

Alistair gets dragged out to bars pretty frequently. Dorian and Cullen force him to go places, even though he’s naturally a hermit. Tonight, they want to go to this dive downtown called “The Hanged Man.” It’s a place they never go because it’s noisy and dirty, but Dorian says they need to experiment. Alistair kicks and screams the whole way there.

When they get inside, it’s just as bad as Alistair anticipated: filled with a mixture of students and old-timer-drunks. Additionally, Cullen and Alistair have some seriously unresolved shit to deal with and he doesn’t think it’s fun to be in the same room with him right now. Dorian wants everything to go back to the way it used to be, but it _can’t_ —Alistair knows that. At least there are pool tables—something to occupy his time until it’s socially acceptable for him to leave

He’s about to start complaining, when he sees someone he doesn’t expect—that guy from the coffee shop: _Anders_. His whole face heats up. It’s alarming how much he likes that guy. He’s concerned about going over to say hello, though… especially after the two weird conversations they’ve had. The second one almost seems worse than the original. Soon, though, one of Anders’ friends comes over and invites them for a drink. It’s an invitation he’ll accept, as long as it gets him closer to Anders.

He sits next to him at the bar. The words that fall out of his mouth sound _really_ stupid—you’d never know he went to college, let alone medical school. He thinks he should surrender his license to the board. He certainly has no business teaching anyone.

Nevertheless, Anders seems to _like_ him—he’s smiling and laughing at all the right times. And when Alistair suggests that they exchange numbers—for _real_ this time—it happens. He can’t believe his luck.

Of course, Cullen eventually ruins it. He can’t seem to stay out of anything potentially good—he’s always there to destroy and maim. So the night is over sooner than Alistair wants it to be. Before he leaves, though, he looks over his shoulder at where Anders is sitting with his friends and he _sees_ —Anders looks just as nervous as Alistair feels. Maybe this is going to be all right after all.

 

* * *

**Presently**

“You were really nervous that night?” I ask.

He nods and buries his face in the skin of my chest. His cheeks are warm.

“I bet I was more nervous than you were…” I say.

“I doubt it,” he mumbles.

“Did I ever tell you I masturbated while we were texting that night?” I laugh, because it’s embarrassing, but we are so far past embarrassment that I’m willing to tell him anything—even if it _is_ at my own expense.

“No… but I told you that _I_ was; remember?”

He _did_ —in the week leading up to Christmas, during our first sexual encounter. He blushes my favorite shade—a light pink dusting across the apples of his cheeks.

“You told me a _lot_ of things…” I laugh, “I was so surprised you let me fuck you.”

He laughs and backs up, “What are you talking about?”

“I thought you were going to be a top—hardcore…” I admit. “Like… the type of self-loathing bisexual guy who never lets anyone near his ass on principle.”

Upon saying that incredibly judgy thing, I wonder what that makes _me_ , but I manage to ignore it.

He sits up. He’s laughing so hard he can’t really breathe. “ _Why_ did you think that?”

I shrug. “Because the alternative seemed to good to be true, I guess…”

He recovers from his laughing fit by coughing a few times.

“...you know… that we’d _fit_ —like this… in _all_ the ways…” I shrug.

“Well, we do, Andy…” He smiles. “We fit in _every_ way.”

* * *

 


	8. 10pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breezing through airport security, Anders tells Alistair a very unflattering story about their time apart. (In the tradition of Anders having dates from hell, this is a bit of a farce.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E: Sex... and not very good sex, at that.

* * *

We arrive at the airport hand in hand and check our bags. Since we’re flying first class, we elect to let someone else handle them—it’s _free_.

Security is a breeze. We’re sitting at our departing gate before 10:15.

“So… that was easy,” he says.

“Want to get a drink?” I ask.

He nods.

We settle ourselves into this little brewery. The whole bar only has 15 or 20 seats. He elects to get an IPA while I drink a Porter.

While we’re chatting idly, a woman at the bar keeps looking at me. She’s really laying it on thick. Alistair notices.

“I’m going to have a stern conversation with that lady if she doesn’t knock it off,” he says.

I laugh, “She seems rather harmless.”

He grabs my hand _on top_ of the table and glares at her.

I blush and look down into my drink. “You’re so jealous—you’d think we were _dating_ …” It occurs to me that it might be too soon for that joke, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

“I told you I’m not _sharing_ you this week—that extends through this flight experience,” he jokes.

“What? You don’t think I should invite her to have a quicky with us before we take off?” I tease.

“You’re the worst…” laughs Alistair.

“C’mon, Al… don’t tell me you’d never have a three-way?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Even consider it?”

“Dear god, no… would _you_?” he asks, suddenly serious.

“I came really close once…”

“Oh my god, you weren’t kidding about being slutty now…” he smirks.

I hit his arm, but we’re both laughing.

“I’m just kidding—no judgment here… I would like to hear that _story_ , though…”

 

* * *

 

**About Five Months Ago**

This is a new low, even for me. As if it isn’t bad enough that I went home with this guy when I _know_ he's married... Now we're having sex in what is surely _her_ bed. I can tell from the decor.

Currently, I'm balls-deep in this jerk. He's groaning and swearing incoherently while I carelessly grind my dick into him. I grab the skin of his hips to drag him backward. And it feels _good_ , but I can't stop imagining the woman who lives here.

“Oh god, Anders,” he babbles.

His name is Nate. He's a high school gym teacher—I’ve known him since the eighth grade. We ran into each other earlier that evening at our high school reunion. It's funny—I promised myself I'd never end up at one of those. At first, we just laughed and talked about the past. Then we talked about the now. I explained my circuitous life plan so far; he told me his predictable story. He married his high school sweetheart—Victoria Cousland—after an unfortunate impregnation scenario during college. He finished his degree, but she didn't. They got married and never looked back. He used to be really good at archery—now he teaches it two weeks out of every semester.

The next thing I know I'm asking if he wants to get out of there and biting his neck. I'm not sure how it happened other than to say that I'm _confident_ now.

Now, we're fucking. And it feels really good, if I'm honest with myself. He has a really gorgeous body, even though he’s a little worn-looking—life hasn't always been kind to him. He keeps arching his back in this way that makes me want to fuck him harder. He's a power-bottom, if such a thing exists.

I'm absolutely losing myself in how great this feels when I feel his muscles tense all at once.

“What?” I almost collapse onto him.

“Shhh,” he whispers.

We try to stay absolutely silent and still. It's unbelievably hard. My dick feels like it's going to fall off if I don't keep it moving—some kind of biological imperative, I guess.

Then, the door opens.

_Shit. Fuck._

A beam of light blinds me as a figure fills the doorway. I can't see her face, but I already know who she is: Victoria.

Victoria was the queen of my high school—not necessarily the smartest, kindest, or best looking, but certainly the most _ruthless_ person in my year. She could have anyone she wanted—for a night or for breakfast. I was as terrified of her then as I am now.

I think about backing up—extricating myself from her husband, as it were—but I don't know _how_.

“Anders?” she clicks her tongue at me and steps into the room where I can finally see her face. She's beautiful and terrifying. “I didn't expect it to be _you_.”

I have no idea what _that's_ supposed to mean, but I don't have time to assess it. To my horror, Nate has started to grind his ass back toward me again.

_Has he lost his mind?_

“I'm so sorry—” I blurt, trying to will my body to back up.

She laughs, “you don't have to be sorry…”

The next few seconds are an absolute blur, but somehow, Victoria ends up in the bed next to me— _under_ me, more accurately—kissing her husband. I'm left there staring in disbelief, still lodged several inches deep in his ass.

“What?” I manage.

“Come on, Anders, don't tell us you've never done this before…” she laughs. “You moved to the city, after all—you must have had some _experiences_.”

She couldn't be more wrong! I've basically never done anything risqué in my life. I'm just _barely_ used to having sex without monogamy.

I shake my head and try not to vomit. I feel sort of paralyzed.

“Come on, live a little,” she grins.

Nate laughs, which sends a shocking pain to my dick.

That’s _it_. I’m _done_. I grab my pants, which are—thank god—within reach and run toward the hallway bathroom. I lock myself in—as if they’re going to try to follow me.

“Okay Andy… you’ve done it this time,” I say to my reflection. “Lost your fucking mind…”

I wash myself in a cursory way and splash water on my face. It’s going to take fifty showers before I feel clean.

“What has become of you?” I say aloud.

A voice inside insists that losing Alistair broke me. I think it’s _true._

 

Eventually, I chance opening the door. I turn the knob incredibly slowly and peek through the crack to see if they’re hunting me. I feel like a gazelle—not sure whether to run. I’m frozen in place.

They’re not near the door, though, and the lewd sounds I hear wafting into the hallway tell me they’re otherwise occupied. I grab my keys out of my pocket so I’m ready to jump into my car and _sprint_.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“So that’s when I decided I should never have sex with two people at once…” I say.

Alistair’s mouth is hanging open.

“At least… two people I _hate_ ,” I laugh.

“Wow, Andy…” he looks green, “that’s a lot to take in…”

I shrug. “Yeah… but it taught me what I want… and what I don’t,” I look at him pointedly.

He smiles, “What _do_ you want?”

I blush, “You.”

He grabs my hand on the table again. “I want you too… _just_ you… _certainly_ not with a third party.”

I laugh suddenly.

“What?”

I almost can’t speak, “One time… this weekend…” I almost choke on my beer. “I thought you might be warming me up to have sex with you and Icis.”

He looks stricken.

“Not _seriously_ … just for a second,” I explain.

He smiles tentatively, “It would never _occur_ to me to have sex with anyone else when I can have sex with you.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow we get back to the sweet stuff... a little humor never killed anyone. Also... huge announcement... in finishing this challenge, I realized that the main story needs 7 chapters, not 6.... 
> 
> So.... you're getting another challenge too!! :) Stay tuned!


	9. 11pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders board the plane and get settled in. Anders remembers meeting Alistair's family at the beginning of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: a cutesy memory, for the most part.

* * *

“So let's say… for the sake of argument—that I _could_ uproot everything and move back to Boston with you…” he posits, “what would that look like?”

We’ve finished our drinks and are waiting to board. There is a special kind of anxiety that airports breed. The closer it gets to departure, the more everyone becomes a vulture. Gradually, the passengers crowd the gate crew. It happens no matter how many times they request that everyone ‘ _remain comfortably seated_ ’ in the boarding area.

“I don’t know, Al,” I mumble as we gather our things. “I want you to feel fulfilled and autonomous.”

“I know that… I just mean… would we live in our old apartment?” he asks. He’s smiling at me. It occurs to me that he doesn’t mean this as a _serious_ suggestion—he just wants to _dream_.

“Oh… well, _I_ think we should,” I say. “I think we should try to find carbon copies of our old furniture too—except I want a nicer mattress: a king-size!”

He laughs, “Me too… I want you to have plenty of room to throw me around.” He growls into my ear.

We’ve begun to sway. People are crowding us on all sides as the gate crew do their final checks.

“We’d like to invite those passengers seated in our premium cabin to board at this time,” says the attendant.

We take three steps forward to the head of the line and smile as we check in.

When I see the chairs, my heart flutters. “ _Oh my god_ ,” I gasp.

Alistair hears me and laughs. I guess he’s flown first class before. On this west-east flight, there are 8 seats in the first class cabin, each one appears to have the capability of lying flat. They have TVs on movable arms. I’m so excited I could scream.

As I settle in, a flight attendant asks us if we want anything. I’m on the inside, near the window, so she asks Alistair first.

He turns to me and says, _at full volume_ , “Honey, do you want anything?”

It makes my entire face turn pink—I can feel it.

The flight attendant smiles at us. Her name tag reads Ashley.

“Maybe a glass of wine? Do you have Merlot?” I ask.

She nods.

“Same,” says Alistair. He holds my hand on the console between us. He’s doing it for me. It’s a _statement_. I love him so much it hurts.

“You never call me _‘honey’_ ,” I whisper, when she’s out of earshot.

“Yeah, well… I don’t want her to think we’re business associates,” he admits.

“Why would that matter?” I ask, laughing.

“It wouldn’t—but I _love_ you,” he says. He’s just staring in my eyes—like he’s never seen anyone he likes so much. It’s alarming in its simplicity.

By the time she brings our wine glasses— _stemless_ , since we’re in a plane—I haven’t stopped looking at Alistair like an idiot. It _hurts_ to like him this much. That used to horrify me, but now I think it’s the best thing that has ever happened.

“Have you flown much lately?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he answers, sipping his wine, “I attend a lot of conferences.”

“That’s neat…” I look out the window at the gate crew completing their final checks. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah… I usually do…” He smiles at something in the distance—a memory, maybe. “I met this really hot engineer on my last flight,” he laughs.

“What did he look like?” I ask.

His eyes widen in feigned outrage, “Um… _she_ was a woman…” He laughs, “God, Anders… you don’t think women can be engineers?”

I blush. “I just thought you liked men better…” It’s a stupid thing to say. I don’t think he has a preference at all. At least—we’ve never _discussed_ that particular thing. I’m just trying to get out of seeming sexist.

“I _don’t_ ,” he says seriously.

“Really?”

“Yeah… I usually find myself more attracted to women…speaking _statistically_ , I guess...” he clears his throat. “But I’m not attracted to _anyone_ like I’m attracted to you.”

 

The captain turns on the fasten seatbelt sign and we settle in. The cabin lighting lowers for our trip back to Boston. The crew announce that it’s 72 in Los Angeles and will be 6 in Boston.

_Perfect._

“Has it been snowing much in New York?” I ask.

“Some… not as much as it has at home, I bet,” he answers.

“At _home_?” I parrot.

He blushes and leans his head onto mine across the armrest. “It still feels like _home_ to me.”

We smile at each other peripherally.

“Do you still live in our apartment?” he asks.

“You thought I’d _move_?”

He shrugs.

“Yes… I still live there…” I pull back so I can look at him and put my hand on one of his knees. “I moved all the furniture around, though…”

“Why?”

“Because I saw you sitting in every chair…”

“Well, can we put it back?” he asks.

This is the first time he’s said something that makes it seem like he’s going to _stay_. It flusters me a little.

“I guess… I mean… _if_ you’re moving back.”

He swallows a too-big gulp of wine.

“I’m not saying that to pressure you,” I explain. “I’m just not sure I can _take_ this… planning and whatnot… if you’re not going to stay.”

“Andy,” he leans in toward my face. “I _love_ you. I don’t want to spend any more time fucking this up.”

I bite my lip. I hope this means what I think it means.

“I _want_ to come back…” he says. “I just have to figure out my work situation.”

My heart sinks. He’s a clinical director now. Those jobs are few and far between.

“...but I _promise_ you, I’m going to figure it out— _somehow_ ,” he adds.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He sounds so sure.

“Then yes… we can move the furniture back.”

I lean in to kiss his cheek. At that exact second, Ashley, the flight attendant from earlier, giggles and leans in.

“I’m so sorry to be a weirdo,” she begins, “but you are like the _nicest_ couple I’ve seen in so long.”

We blush.

“How long have you been together?” she asks.

It’s a hard question, but Alistair has a clever answer ready, it seems.

“If it were up to me, it would have been since the _second_ we met.”

_Dear god… is this real life?_

She smiles and continues through the cabin.

“We’ve known each other a long time,” he says suddenly.

I nod, “Yeah… the beginning feels like a lifetime ago…”

He laughs suddenly. “Remember when you met my Aunt and Uncle?”

“Oh my god… how could I forget? It was when we were new… like… _really_ new.”

 

* * *

 

**Several Years Ago**

The Guerrin family house is austere. Standing on the front lawn, I feel like a gnat. It’s almost worse than the Hawke estate. Alistair and I close the doors of his car and put our hands in our pockets at the same time. He’s stressed and I’m absorbing it.

“Hello!” a woman with a thick French accent greets us at the door. She looks young enough to be his sister.

“Hi, Isolde,” he says. He kisses her cheeks three times: left, right, then left again.

She smiles and then pulls me in to do the same strange kissing ritual. I fumble my way through it without any grace.

“This is my boyfriend, Anders,” he offers.

We’re still new so I like hearing him call me that. We’ve only been together two months, but it feels serious.

“Hi,” I smile.

She looks at me like I’m _adequate_ , which I think is high praise, coming from her. I can’t really imagine a scenario where I’m accepted like this. I haven’t spoken to my own parents in a decade—since I came out.

We are ushered into an unbelievable foyer with clear sight-lines into the backyard. There’s a man with graying hair overseeing a grill on the back patio. He waves when he sees us.

“That’s my uncle,” says Alistair. He pulls me by the hand until we’re again outside, on the opposite end of the house.

“Eamon,” he calls, smiling brightly, “this is my boyfriend, Anders.”

 _There’s that title again_.

“Hi, I’m so glad to meet you,” I offer. “Alistair has told me so much about you.” That’s a lie—I’ve had no details to speak of.

“Thank you, Anders,” he says, shaking my hand. “Alistair hasn’t told us nearly _enough_ about you… but anyone he cares about enough to bring to the house is a friend of ours.”

It’s all very cordial, but I have a feeling there’s something lurking—something that could get ugly fast.

All the way through dinner, though, nothing surfaces… it isn’t until we’re heading off to bed that Eamon catches me by the crook of the arm. Alistair is in the kitchen, helping Isolde with something. There’s no way he can hear me unless I scream, so I just turn and try not to pass out. I feel like I’m about to be interrogated.

“Anders,” Eamon begins, “I would be a fool to ask why Alistair is interested in you…”

That’s a _curious_ beginning. I can’t imagine where it’s going, so I stay silent.

“You’re obviously very intelligent and compelling…” he continues.

I don’t want to _nod_ , because it will seem like I’m conceited, but I want to do something to acknowledge that I’ve heard him. I settle on this weird noise that gurgles up from my throat. It only succeeds in confusing the issue.

“Nevertheless,” he clears his throat. “I would be remiss if I did not warn you—Alistair is fragile… after what happened with whats-his-name.”

He means Cullen, of course. Apparently _everyone_ knows. When Alistair told me the story a month ago, I didn’t realize how it permeated his whole life.

“He spent a lot of years imagining a future that was never really going to be there,” concludes Eamon.

I know what he means. Alistair told me that he’d spent a decade hoping and wishing and dreaming. It still hurts to think about. It’s _fresh_.

“I understand,” I manage.

He smiles broadly, “Then I trust we understand each other?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

I nod, but I’m not sure what he thinks he’s accomplished. Does he think this precludes the possibility of a breakup in the future? Family members rarely have any control over that sort of thing. The people _involved_ barely do.

He ushers me into the kitchen where I collect Alistair. We spend the rest of the night fooling around in his childhood bedroom and I vow never to tell him the details of my conversation with his uncle. Despite my trepidation, everything proceeds beautifully for the rest of the weekend and they invite me to join them at their summer place the following season… an invitation I never get a chance to accept.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“You never told me about that conversation,” says Alistair. His eyes are wide with disbelief.

“I didn’t think it would be good for anyone,” I say.

“Well, you _could_ have told me… it would have made me feel better when we eventually _did_ break up…” he argues. “When I told them, I thought Eamon was going to kill me,” says Alistair. “Little did I know, he was just angry at _you_.”

I drink another too-big gulp of wine and almost choke. “I promised I’d treat you better…”

“You didn’t really promise that,” says Alistair. He’s smirking, even though this conversation sucks.

“Not in so many words… but the implication was there…”

He shrugs. “I guess… but you did treat me better… _I_ fucked everything up…”

“I should have forgiven you,” I argue.

“No… there's no ‘should’ in this sort of thing,” he says.

I shrug.

His eyes suddenly light up, “I think they’re going to be really happy if we tell them we’re back together.”

“Are we?” I ask suddenly. “Back together?”

“We’re _trying_ to be.”

           

 


	10. 12am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plane takes off and Alistair finally tells the cheating story. Catharsis ensues?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: just for sadness.

* * *

When the plane finally takes off, we settle in. I often fall asleep for a few minutes during takeoff. This time is no exception. I think I have a very short dream about a life where Alistair and I never broke up. It’s funny because we _seem_ happy, but I’m not a doctor in the dream—he’s all I have in that scenario.

This is messier, but it’s _way_ better.

Shortly after we’re above 10,000 feet the captain announces that wifi devices will now work and there are a variety of movie selections available. It wakes me up. I find Alistair scrolling through about fifty emails.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask, leaning over his shoulder.

He flinches, like I’ve caught him looking at porn.

“What?”

“Nothing… just checking in with work,” he says. His voice is decidedly nervous.

“Is it a matter of national security?” I tease, “...because you just freaked out a little..”

He laughs and sighs, “No… I just got an email from a hospital administrator asking when I’ll be back in the office…”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know how to respond… but there’s a huge event going on with the new crop of interns on Thursday…” he adds.

Today is Sunday. That means I have (at maximum) three days left with him.

“I think I’m going to cry when you leave,” I announce.

He smiles sadly, “Me too…”

We stare at each other in silence for a minute.

“It wouldn’t be the first time…” he mumbles. It isn’t exactly a _nice_ thing to say, but it takes the edge off. Now we can think about _other_ times we cried and still made it work.

“Do you remember when you found out…” he hesitates, “about Cullen?”

I nod. _How could I forget that?_

“That’s the hardest I think I’ve ever cried in my life…” he says. “When you wouldn’t talk to me in the hallway outside your apartment...?”

I nod.

“I never got to tell you—”

“What?”

“How _sorry_ I was…”

 

 

* * *

**Several Years Ago**

 

 

Alistair answers the door without a shirt on. He’s just gotten out of the shower and he managed to put pants on—and a belt—but he hasn’t done anything to his hair. It’s flopping into his face and dripping onto his neck.

On the other side, he assumes it’s Anders, come back to retrieve a forgotten resistance band or shaker bottle.

“Did you decide to take me up on my offer of staying in bed all day?” he asks, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Except when his eyes focus on the person outside the door, it isn’t Anders at all—it’s Cullen.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

Alistair can’t find words. He’s suddenly feeling _really_ naked. He opens the door and gestures while he tries to get his mouth to work.

“Thanks,” says Cullen. He looks incredibly stressed.

They stare at each other for a minute. They’re hovering in the kitchen awkwardly.

“Do you want anything?” Alistair asks.

“No, I’m fine…” answers Cullen. It’s terse—clipped.

“Okay…”

They’re at an impasse. Alistair doesn’t know exactly what’s happening, but he knows something is wrong. Cullen hasn’t _purposely_ visited him since Alistair spilled his secret almost a year ago—since he admitted he’d been in love with him all these years. Since then, Cullen only hangs out with Alistair under duress, and _always_ with Dorian as a chaperone.

Alistair huffs without meaning to.

“Can we sit?” asks Cullen suddenly.

“Yeah…”

They sit next to each other at the kitchen counter. Without coffee cups it feels even more awkward than standing next to each other in the kitchen.

“Alistair,” he swallows hard, “I need to tell you something.”

This sounds familiar. Alistair suppresses a grimace.

“I’ve made a huge mistake—I think I have,” he stammers.

Alistair blinks. He can’t even form words because he _knows_ this preamble. It’s the same thing he said to Cullen.

“I…” he pauses to lean into Alistair’s face. His face is so beautiful—Alistair almost can’t stand to see it this close up.

“I need you,” he says.

_What?_

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he continues, “I should never have let you go.”

Alistair’s mouth is a desert. He suddenly can’t remember how his tongue works—it feels like a dry sponge, filling his mouth from edge to edge.

Cullen puts a hand on the side of Alistair’s neck. His thumb lands hard in the depression behind Alistair’s clavicle.

Alistair finds it hard to breathe with that hand on his neck—warm and solid and _familiar_.

“Alistair,” Cullen leans in even closer. It feels like it should be _illegal_ for him to get that close. “Please…”

“Please _what_?” Alistair manages. His voice comes out too loud—it’s an overcorrection from all the silence earlier.

Cullen licks his lips, “I need you.” He’s said that twice now. Alistair still doesn’t know what it means.

“I’m with Anders,” Alistair babbles nonsensically.

“I know,” says Cullen. He looks down at the floor in a caricature of contrition. “But Alistair—we have _history_.”

“Yeah… a history of you torturing me,” says Alistair. He thinks about pulling his head away, but that hand on his neck is so strong—and the pull in its intention is even stronger.

Cullen squints, like it’s painful to hear Alistair say that—as if it isn’t _true_.

“Alistair,” he says, “I’m so sorry.”

That stops Alistair’s train of thought dead—he _never_ thought Cullen would apologize.

“When you told me,” he continues, “I was _surprised_ —shocked… and I reacted badly. I should have told you then… how I felt.”

Alistair doesn’t want to give him an inch, but he feels it happening anyway. “How _do_ you feel?”

“I _love_ you,” he says.

Alistair’s world shatters. Everything he’s ever known breaks and reforms in an instant. _Cullen loves him_?

“What?” Alistair swallows past a lump in his throat. It hurts.

Cullen doesn’t wait for anything else, though. He pulls with that strong hand on Alistair’s neck and kisses him—it’s fierce and angry.

Alistair wants to pull away—a voice inside _insists_ he should—but he doesn’t. He has never known how to say no to Cullen. Why should _this_ be any different?

Before he knows what’s happening, they’re upstairs—in his bed—grabbing every part of each other. His lips already feel bruised.

“You’re amazing,” breathes Cullen.

It’s what he’s wanted to hear for the last decade, and yet, it feels _wrong_ now—like something meant for a different life. He opens his eyes for a second, while Cullen is busy biting the skin between his neck and shoulder.

That’s when he sees it: Anders’ sweater, slung over the banister at the top of the stairs. He could have left it there last night or the night before. He could have washed it in Alistair’s washing machine or his own. He could have put it in that exact spot so Alistair would wear it around the house. They _share_ sometimes.

Alistair’s heart sinks.

“Cullen,” he whispers.

Nothing changes. In fact, Cullen doubles down—he grabs for the buckle of Alistair’s belt.

“Cullen!” Alistair shouts. It comes out louder than he intended, but it does the trick. Cullen looks up, dazed. “Stop this,” he begs. “I—I’m with _Anders_ now…”

Cullen looks like he’s going to _argue_ —as if he gets to choose what’s _true_.

“...and Cullen,” Alistair stands and runs a hand through his hair. “I _love_ him.”

 

Cullen leaves in a flurry of admonishments and scoffs. Alistair barely hears a word. When the door is closed, he takes another shower. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel clean.

He gets out and texts Anders a few times. If he can make contact, maybe this will all blow over. He spends the entire night trying to convince himself that everything is going to be fine… but it _isn’t_. Anders never calls; never comes back.  

Alistair paces through his house imagining what could have _happened_ to Anders. He even knocks on his door at one point, but he doesn’t hear any movement inside, so he gives up and goes home. He doesn’t have keys to Anders’ place. An insane voice in his head suggests that if he’d just pushed a _little_ harder, Anders would be living with him and none of this would have had a chance to happen.

By the time it’s morning, he’s had it. He calls and texts Anders several more times. Just when he’s starting to consider a missing-person’s report, he gets a series of texts.

 _Thank god_.

Only, when he reads them, they’re a _break up_ —plain and simple. His hands are shaking as he dials Anders’ phone.

“Anders, I don’t understand what’s going on,” he sputters. He doesn’t know he’s crying until he hears his own voice.

Anders says a series of noncommittal things that seem like lies and hangs up. Alistair can’t accept it. He plods down the 24 steps to Anders’ apartment and camps out.

 

“What are you doing here?” groans Anders.

“I’m here to get a fucking straight answer,” Alistair manages. He’s swearing so he can seem angry, but he’s really just ruined—guilty, embarrassed, and miserable.

They hurl insults at each other for a while. Each one hurts. And finally, the pièce de résistance is: “ _I don’t love you_.”

Alistair staggers back against the wall. He doesn’t know what happened, but he can guess. Cullen _told_ Anders... or Anders found out on his own… or _something_. But he hasn’t gotten the full story… he doesn’t know the depth of Alistair’s regret. Still, what is there to say when the love of your life doesn’t reciprocate? He can’t argue—he lost already.

Alistair manages to collect himself enough to drag a sleeve across his cheeks. This is _it_. He’ll never see Anders again—and the best thing in his life will be gone… because of Cullen… _again_ … he’s destruction personified. _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

Alistair looks almost as miserable recounting that as he did leaning against the wall in front of my old apartment door. I reach up and rub his cheek.

“ _You_ certainly don’t have to be sorry… that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he says.

I shrug. “I think that if we’d just been better at communicating, we might have worked it out…”

He shrugs. “It’s possible… but I think this helped us, in a way.”

I squint at him.

“...we learned how much we _need_ each other,” he smiles, “Don’t you think?”

We smile and kiss. My whole life is better because he’s in it.

“I never want to see you cry like that again,” I say. “ _Especially_ not when you fly back to New York…”

He shakes his head, “No… _if_ I go back… I will cry because I’m going to _miss_ you while we’re apart—not because I’m afraid we’ll never see each other again.”

* * *

 


	11. 1am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders goes over his schedule for next week. Alistair tells the story of the morning he found out Anders went to medical school before... including the sex that Anders left out the first time we heard it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E: sex and whatnot

* * *

About an hour into the flight, I pull my planner out of my bag and flip to next week’s schedule. It’s full of highlighted meetings and assignments. The whole thing looks completely _impossible_ , actually.

“Wow,” Alistair laughs, looking over my shoulder. “I remember those days…”

“I think I’m going to die,” I joke.

“I used to claim I was dying daily,” he says. “So did Cullen. The only one who didn’t was Dorian… he’s a genius so he never came to class.”

“I hate those people…” I say. “I think they’ll make shitty doctors, though—clinically speaking.”

“I used to say that too.” He smiles. “And I still stand by it, but Dorian’s a radiologist—he doesn’t have to be good with people.”

I shrug. I guess he’s right.

“I was really surprised when you first told me you’d dropped out of medical school, you know,” he says.

“Really? Lots of people wash out.”

“No… I mean… I was surprised you went in the first place—that you even wanted to,” he says. “You seemed so happy with your job.”

“Oh…” I think about it. “I _was_ happy. I just didn’t feel totally fulfilled since I chose it during such a tumultuous time in my life.”

We smile at each other peripherally.

“Besides… I’m really good at this—I think I’m going to be a hell of a physician.” I smile.

“I think you are too.”

 

* * *

 

**Several Years Ago**

When Alistair wakes up, Anders is looking at him. It’s been a really bad week on the whole, but the look Anders is wearing makes him think this might be the worst day yet.

“Love,” says Anders. “I need to tell you something.”

Alistair isn’t really with it yet, so he sputters, “What time is it?”

Anders looks sort of annoyed now—in addition to whatever he looked like before. Alistair blinks a few times, trying to focus.

“I went to medical school,” he blurts.

Now Alistair is _really_ confused. Is he dreaming?

“ _What_?”

“I went… I didn’t graduate…” says Anders. He looks so embarrassed. As if _any_ of this matters to Alistair—he _loves_ Anders. He wouldn’t care if he wanted to sell balloons on the street or take up falconry.

They spend the next few minutes interrogating each other. Alistair wants to know the details about his school experience—because it’s something they _almost_ shared—while Anders wants to explain away his perceived deficiencies.

They eventually reach a point where Alistair almost explains it: Anders is the light of his life and can do nothing wrong. Cullen is a _dick_. Etc. Etc. ...and then things turn decidedly spicier. Whether the sex is out of admiration or pity remains to be seen.

“Andy?” Alistair asks. “Do you have to work today?” He’s flat on his back, trying to remember how to form words while having his cock sucked.

“Not until noon,” answers Anders. He sounds sort of funny under the covers.

“Then why are we rushing this?” asks Alistair. “Let me show you how much I care about you.”

He pulls and pushes Anders until he has him flat on his back.

“How are you going to do _that_?” asks Anders. He’s smirking.

“You tell me—you’re the boss,” says Alistair. He settles  himself between Anders’ thighs and waits.

Anders hesitates.

“Would you like suggestions?” asks Alistair.

Anders blushes.

“Okay… well… you could tell me to lick you—” He sucks on Anders’ earlobe. “...or to touch you in a particular place… You could also tell me to blow you or to turn over so you can fuck me…I’m amenable to all suggestions that don’t end this _right now,_ ” Alistair tries to keep his face straight while he’s talking, but it’s kind of hard. This sort of thing embarrasses him in the beginning. He normally has to work up to it, but he’s fighting the clock right now. Something about Anders’ demeanor tells him that he’s looking for an escape.

“Just kiss me,” says Anders. He reaches up to put his fingers through Alistair’s hair. It’s such a gentle gesture, Alistair feels his heart speed up.

One kiss turns into dozens and before Alistair knows it, his body is bowing toward Anders’. They arch and writhe together until they’re starting to sweat.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” whispers Alistair. His lip is caught between Anders’ teeth at the time, but he thinks Anders understands him, because he blushes bright pink.

“Touch me,” says Anders suddenly.

Alistair smiles. “Whatever you want, Andy…” He hovers over Anders—his weight supported on his left elbow—daring him to say something else.

“ _Do it_ ,” urges Anders. He gets bossy if Alistair makes him wait too long.

He trails his fingertips across Anders’ chest and stomach and finally circles his cock. It’s hard and slightly damp at the tip. He runs his thumb across each ridge and facet. He’s in the stage of getting to know each part intimately.

Anders groans and tries to thrust up, but he can’t because Alistair’s weight is pinning his right hip against the mattress. He looks frustrated, but in the sexiest way Alistair can imagine.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

“You’re so impatient,” chides Alistair.

“Only because you’re torturing me,” gasps Anders.

“Fine—I’ll be nice,” he crawls down the bed, pulling the blankets with him so he can see Anders’ body stretched out. He’s super ripped right now—even more than he was when they first got together. As a trainer, his body changes pretty frequently, in response to what he’s doing in the gym and how strict he’s being about his meal prep, but this is a whole different game. Alistair runs his palm across the ridge at the bottom of his obliques and feels each tiny fasciculation as he strains.

Finally, he flicks his tongue across the head of Anders’ cock. That nets him a gasp and a sigh as well as myriad muscle contractions. He smiles to himself.

“I love you,” he whispers, looking up at Anders’ face.

He doesn’t wait for a response, though. Instead, he sucks the first several inches into his mouth in one smooth motion. He waits at the bottom, wondering if Anders is going to grab the back of his head, but he doesn’t, so Alistair does it again—a little deeper this time.

“You’re so amazing,” whispers Anders. He doesn’t even sound like he’s talking to Alistair specifically—it sounds more like he’s thanking the universe.

Alistair likes compliments, though, so he adds his fist below his mouth and works his way up and down a little faster.

The muscles in Anders’ thighs contract and stutter. “I don’t want to come yet,” he says.

Alistair didn’t realize he was that close—he feels like he just started. He doesn’t stop while he’s thinking—if anything he speeds up.

“ _Please_ ,” Anders reiterates.

Alistair’s mouth is too full to argue, but he slows down a little. Anders relaxes.

“Come here,” Anders grabs at the blankets and pillows to make a space for Alistair next to him. “Keep sucking.”

Alistair obliges, rotating until they’re almost parallel. He knows what’s coming, but he pretends not to. When Anders spreads shockingly cold liquid all over his ass, he flinches right on cue.

“That’s it,” coaches Anders. He pushes the tips of his fingers inside gently and spreads them apart.

Lately, they haven’t had sex as regularly as Alistair would like, so it’s a little harder than it would be. Anders is taking extra care to make sure he’s ready. It’s sweet, actually, but soon he’s willing to _beg_ Anders to get it over with and fuck him. He’s aching.

Anders figures it out shortly. He wriggles himself out from under Alistair and kneels, pumping his dick a few times.

“You’re not hard enough?” teases Alistair.

“I’m hard enough… I just like touching myself,” he jokes. “Do you object?”

Alistair blushes, but still manages to push his ass back toward Anders. “I want you.”

Uncharacteristically, Anders doesn’t argue. He lines himself up and rocks forward—slowly at first, testing.

“Oh god… yes,” breathes Alistair. “More.”

“Hold still,” says Anders. He grabs Alistair’s hips and pulls them back while he thrusts in deeper.

“I’m trying,” he says.

Anders picks up the pace. Alistair can feel his energy—he’s _rushing_.

“And touch yourself…” adds Anders.

Alistair wants to—it’s just hard to do when he’s being ripped apart. He grabs his cock and runs his hand over it. It’s uncoordinated and the head keeps brushing the sheets, which is painful after several repetitions.

“Are you going to come?” asks Anders.

Alistair shakes his head, “...but you can. I want you to.” It isn’t a lie—Alistair _does_ want that. He wants Anders to be happy and fulfilled and he wants him to _enjoy_ sex… but he can’t help feeling a little like a _receptacle_ , instead of a person.

Six months ago, Anders probably would have argued. He would have asked more questions and gotten to the bottom of this so they could come together in some kind of intensely romantic situation, but today he doesn’t. He fucks him so hard, Alistair has to exert himself to stay upright.

He breathes pointedly and bites down on the skin of his forearm to dull the pain that’s everywhere. It’s a pain he knows—a pain he created with his indiscretion. If this is what is going to help—going to fix them—he’s willing. He’s relieved they’re having sex _at all_.

Anders eventually comes so shallowly that ejaculate gets everywhere. It’s a mess, but Alistair doesn’t mind. They tumble and roll until they’re vaguely side by side.

“I love you,” whispers Alistair.

Anders closes his eyes and nods, but he doesn’t say it back.

It hurts more than anything else they did today.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“I have two things to say about that memory,” I whisper into Alistair’s ear. “One: I’m so fucking hard right now… thanks for that...”

Alistair turns his head to look at me. He’s smiling like it’s his birthday.

“And two…” I continue, “I’m _really sorry_.”

He runs a hand over my knee cap, “No… Don’t be sorry. I just _noticed_ that it wasn’t the same…”

“The same as it used to be?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah… I hurt you, Andy—you were just trying to _survive_ it.”

“Still… I didn’t know I was being like that. I was so afraid of getting hurt again that I forgot to be vulnerable,” I admit. “... I forgot to be _kind_.”

“You are _now_ …” He smiles gently.

I kiss his cheek.

He nods, “Besides… it doesn’t always have to be like that—gentle and shit… we’re _men_.” He rolls his eyes.

I snort. “Yeah. No feelings allowed.”

We sigh together.

“You were _really sweet_ this week, though,” he adds. “It was like old-Anders level of care with new-Anders experience and confidence. I liked it.”

“Me too.”

* * *

 


	12. 2am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting hard to stay awake, but Anders doesn't want to miss a minute. Alistair tells the story of Isabela's dislocated shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: very sweet.

* * *

“I can't keep my eyes open,” I whisper. Alistair has been running his fingers through my hair for the last hour and I feel like a cat—purring myself to sleep.

“Then go to sleep,” he suggests.

“No.” I blink a few times. “I don’t want to miss a second of this.”

He laughs, “This… as in the _super_ exciting redeye where everyone else is asleep?”

I roll my eyes. “I only have a little while left… I…”

He nods at me. He already knows what I’m going to say, but I want to finish anyway.

“I am going to miss you _so much_.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” he agrees.

“So… it’s decided?” I ask. “You’re going back?” My heart sinks.

“No one said that,” he argues. “I just don’t know what else to do… they’re _expecting_ me…”

I nod.

He turns toward me and grabs both my hands. “At the very least, I have to give adequate notice… In academia, that’s at least one quarter—11 weeks.”

“You know this isn’t making me feel better, right?” I manage to smile.

He shrugs. “I know… it isn’t making _me_ feel better either…”

That nice flight attendant who likes us comes by to refill my wine, which feels like a lifeline at this point. I smile at her silently until she’s out of earshot.

“At least we’ll get to experiment with FaceTime sex?” I offer.

He laughs.

“I _would_ like to see a close-up of your anatomy…” I add.

“I could help you study?”

I laugh really hard. He doesn’t.

“Why not?” he asks. “I’ve been teaching for like five years.”

I laugh again, “I thought you were making a joke about being ‘ _textbook normal_ ’... so you could help me study male reproductive anatomy...”

He smiles, “No… I _know_ my dick always leans to the left…”

“Yeah… what’s the deal with that?” I smirk.

He sips his wine. “Remember when you had to pick up Isabela at the hospital when she separated her shoulder?”

I had almost forgotten about that.

“Did you ever find out how she did that?” he asks.

I laugh, “No, actually… and I didn’t press it because I can fill in the blanks and I don’t want to picture Fenris doing any of that.”

He snorts.

“What did you think when you saw me there?” I ask.

“I was really nervous,” he admits. “I wanted to make a good impression—I wanted you to think I was smart.”

“I _do_ think you’re smart.”

“I know that—now,” he laughs again.

 

* * *

 

**Several Years Prior**

When Alistair first sees Isabela in the hospital, he’s confused. For a mad second, he thinks that she might be there to yell at him. Maybe Anders has come to his senses and decided to throw Alistair out of the house.

But she’s not—she’s cradling her arm and breathing raggedly. What happened to her?

Alistair rushes up to the reception desk and overrides the administrators who are trying to assign her to another wing.

“Hi, Isabela,” he says. “What’s going on?”

She rolls her eyes and manages to laugh, “Just a pinch… don’t worry… I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“I think that’s supposed to be _my_ line.” He smirks.

They get her admitted to a room under his purview. “I’ll be back with some interns in a little while. The nurses are going to get you settled, okay?”

She nods.

“Is there someone we should call to come get you when we’re done?”

“I’ll handle that,” she says, grabbing her phone out of her purse. It takes considerable effort, but Alistair knows she won’t want help.

He nods and leaves to collect the interns. He thinks about calling Anders for a second. He doesn’t, though, because patient privacy is something he takes seriously. He still wishes he _could_. He knows Anders would be worried. He’d want to come right down. Isabela is like a sister to him. Additionally, and more alarmingly, he wants Anders to be a part of everything he does—every day of his life.

He collects himself and gathers his interns.

“All right—we’re about to reset a dislocated GH,” he says. “Who can tell me what the mechanism of injury is here?”

Icis—the smartest one in the bunch—raises her hand first.

“Yes?” He points to her.

“The proximal humerus has been displaced anteriorly?” she begins.

He nods.

“And the glenoid is—by comparison—posterior?” she adds.

“Right again,” he looks back at everyone else, “So what are we going to do about it?”

“Kocher’s maneuver?” asks another intern. She doesn’t sound sure.

“Exactly.” He clears his throat, “The thing we have to be prepared for is that this is going to _hurt_ —and that the axillary artery could be compromised. If we start to see evidence of numbness or cyanosis in the fingertips, we need to call for immediate surgical intervention. Got it?”

Everyone nods grimly.

“All right, Isabela,” says Alistair, turning the corner. She’s putting her phone away just as he enters. “We’re going to sort you out, okay?”

She doesn’t even scream when they reduce her dislocation. Usually, the yelling covers up the audible _crunch_ , but he _hears_ it this time. It’s a sound no one ever really gets used to. Afterward, he prescribes her some painkillers and sedatives.

“Did you call someone to come get you?” he asks.

She nods, “Andy’s going to be here any minute.”

He feels sweat against the inside of his collar almost instantly. Anders is going to see where he _works_ —what he’s like at work.

“In fact—there he is,” Isabela looks over Alistair’s shoulder and waves.

As Anders walks in, Alistair infers an entire conversation from his body language. First, he tries to avoid Alistair—he walks too close to the wall, brushing it with his shoulder. Then another expression emerges—something like embarrassment, but Alistair can’t figure out why. He’s so happy to see Anders, it’s unreasonable.

“Hi,” he says.

They look at each other for an awkward amount of time before Alistair remembers he’s supposed to be teaching.

Eventually the interns file out and he can let his guard down—a little. They run through a few awkward sentences and eventually Alistair kisses Anders’ cheek. It’s far less than he wants, but it’s probably more than he _should_ do.

He thinks he hears Isabela sigh. He infers an eyeroll.

“See you tonight,” he says.

Anders nods and smiles. Considering the last few months, he wonders if that’s even something Anders _wants_. It’s all been so tenuous since… _well_ …

He leaves the room and counts the minutes until he gets to see Anders again.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“You really thought I didn’t love you?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“I’m sorry.” I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull our foreheads together. “I loved you so much then… and I love you now… I was just really scared and wounded…”

We sigh.

“...and I thought you’d judge me if you found out I’d gone to med school and failed so miserably…” I add.

“I realize that now… and it’s a _very_ flattering light to be painted in…” He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look upset.

“You should take it as a compliment,” I insist. “I was willing to fuck you even though I thought our relationship was extremely tenuous and conditional. You’re _that_ hot.”

We both laugh.

“Andy… I’m so glad we’re back together.”

That throws me.

“What do you mean? It doesn’t feel like anything is really settled at all…”

“One thing is: I’m not going to let anything else come between us,” he says seriously. “Logistics be damned.”

“Really?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. We’re _together_. I’m going to tell everyone.”

We whisper we love each other and eventually drift off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Thank you soooo much for all the love on this challenge. The next chapter of Coffee Shop will be published later this week. (Probably Friday). 
> 
> If you liked this challenge, I'd love to hear from you in a comment or on twitter or tumblr @ponticle.
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Subscribe for daily updates and if you liked this _please_ leave a comment. They make all the difference in the life of a fanfic author. :)


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